CONSTRUCT, Chapter Two

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CHAPTER TWO

Colton sat astride his horse under what passed for an eave, on the driest piece of dirt he could find in the little grassland village. With a subtle shift of the reins, he sidled his horse closer to the building, hoping to move out of the nagging drizzle leaking from the blanket of grey overhead. It was mid-afternoon and already darkening, the failing light compounded by autumn rainclouds. In spite of the dimness of the afternoon, bright golden-orange light danced along the alley wall, not from any sun peeking through, but from the raging inferno devouring a building across the street.
        A fire of this magnitude in one building was a danger to the whole village, which consisted of perhaps twenty buildings all told. The humid air and light rain offered only marginal help, so most of the villagers formed a fire brigade. Attempts to douse the fire itself had been for naught, so now they worked to prevent it from spreading to nearby buildings. Colton’s partner sat a few strides ahead of him, watching it all with morbid amusement.
        “Shame,” the man said without turning back toward Colton. “I rather liked Ferron.”
        “You don’t like anybody, Bales.” Colton replied. “We should go. We can come back in the morning, but we shouldn’t just stand around.”
        Colton pulled the reins, and his horse backed away. The mouth of the alley grew smaller, closing around the edges of the blaze until it framed a small, bright rectangle of flickering orange and red with Bales silhouetted in the middle. Colton exited the opposite end, and the despicable coldness of the grassland drizzle sneaked down his neck. He lifted his collar and turned away, hoping Bales would follow.

Colton shielded his eyes from the flat, bright light of morning as he woke; the tattered curtains in the inn room had been left open. He sat upright, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. A deep breath brought with it the musty smell of the old room, mingled with a wisp of the morning air and the faint scent of sugared oatmeal from the tavern downstairs. He rested his elbows on his thighs, hands still covering his bleary eyes.
        Standing up was more of a chore than it had been in years past. His back ached from the lumpy bed, his road-weary knees and hips cracked as he applied pressure to them. Rolling the ache out of his left shoulder drew a muffled grunt from him as the joint complained. Numbness was slowly replaced by the prickles of returning bloodflow as he shook his hand back to life.
        The morning sun hung only a finger’s width above the mountains. The washbasin below the window had been freshened, surely not by Bales, and Colton marveled at how tired he must have been for a maidservant to make it in and out of the room while he still slept. He splashed some of the tepid water on his face and washed his hands, drying off with a towel laid out on the table beside the basin. He dressed in his riding clothes and pulled on his wide leather belt, running his thumb over the shallow relief adorning the bronze buckle.
        His hands moved around his belt, checking each of the pouches hanging at intervals around his waist. Satisfied everything was in order, he slipped his weathered tricorne from the bed post and settled it on his head. Stepping to the door, he paused and closed his eyes, taking in several long breaths. Between the seemingly endless nature of their mission and Bales’s disagreeable temperament, Colton had grown weary.
        With one hand on the door, he drew a small glass vial from a pouch at his belt. Pale blue light played in a tendril of fog within the small container. Colton uncorked the vial, placed it to his lips, and drew the light into himself. It washed away some measure of weariness, and he set out with a deep, numb breath, pausing at the top of the stairs.
        The large central firepit in the nearly empty tavern still carried a small flame and red embers. Chairs stood upside-down on the few scattered tables. A hefty barmaid in a utilitarian blouse worked behind the bar, wiping down mugs with a green wool rag.
        A tavern boy knelt before the bar, dunking a scrub brush in a washbucket to his side and attempting to erase a series of black and grey scuffs from the floor. The tavern had been empty most of the night, allowing Colton and Bales to drink in peace. After the sky darkened, the tired and doleful lot of ranch-hands and dirt farmers who’d been engaged with the fire across town filtered in, drinking and eating in somber silence, saving revelry for happier times. Colton welcomed the quiet atmosphere.
        Colton spotted Bales near the front door, munching on a handful of farls. His partner’s hands emerged from the worn sleeves of his waistcoat like cave denizens, jittering as they worked to shell another nut. As Colton descended the stairs toward the main floor, Bales stood, grabbing his riding coat. He tossed the remaining farls into the pile of shells at his feet, drawing a look of contempt from the tavern boy and barmaid in the process. As Bales crossed the bar, clods of mud dislodged from the sides of his boots to scatter across the newly scrubbed floor.
        Bales worked his tongue around his gums, evidently clearing some detritus left behind by his morning snack. He swiped his dark hair away from his face before donning his own hat. “Nice of you to join us!” he said to Colton, in a tone too cheery to be genuine. “Can we be on our way?”
        Colton was used to this kind of reaction from Bales, but that never meant he enjoyed it. After every job, his partner—an inadequate description of their relationship—was coiled like a spring, desperate to move to the next task in their ongoing assignment. “Every moment you think of me as lazy, Bales, is a moment I find you over-eager.”
        “Be that as it may, it’s time to go.” Bales raised his voice, to no one in particular. “It’s time to put this smelly little washbasin of a town behind us.” The barmaid’s face wrinkled as though she’d just gotten a whiff of sour milk.
        “We have local business to attend to, Bales, so lengthen your nerves.”
        “My nerves are long enough, Colton,” the last words came out thick and black. “But they’re strapped to thinning patience. Let’s. Go.”
        Bales turned on his heels and flicked his coat downward as he donned it, knocking over the washbucket in the process. The tavern boy looked up from the gray puddle around his knees and began to protest, but held his tongue as Colton passed him by. Bales swung the doors outward and exited to the street without thought for his partner, who caught the swinging doors with upraised hands.
        “Will ye be needin’ the room another night?” The barmaid peered over the bar, her knuckles white around the dirty mug in her hand.
        “Even need wouldn’t make me stay here another night.” Colton said as he exited.